


Comforts of Home

by theladybeatrice



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Illness, Modern AU, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:38:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladybeatrice/pseuds/theladybeatrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos was stunned when his eyes drifted down to the corner clock on his laptop.  It was 3:45, on a Friday, and he <cite>didn’t know.</cite>  Typically on a Friday, he would have been interrupted all afternoon.  Porthos and d’Artagnan would have reminded him every time they saw him that it was indeed Friday.  But the most unhelpful would be Aramis.  He would stop by every so often, a note of celebration ringing in his voice, encouraging Athos to join them after work in this or that club.  Then there would be the emails, arriving in bunches, detailing the plans, where they were going, what they would be doing (which inevitably boiled down to Athos nursing a bottle of wine while the others bounced around being social).  About every forty-five minutes, another email bunch would arrive, inevitably changing whatever plans Aramis had laid out previously, so that Athos was never really concerned until about 4 pm.  But today, no impromptu visits, no constant dinging email alerts, no Aramis.  </p>
<p>Something was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comforts of Home

“Life is made up, not of great sacrifices or duties, but of little things. In which smiles and kindness, and small obligations given habitually, are what preserve the heart and secure comfort.”  
\--Humphry Davy

Athos was stunned when his eyes drifted down to the corner clock on his laptop. It was 3:45, on a Friday, and he didn’t know. Typically on a Friday, he would have been interrupted all afternoon. Porthos and d’Artagnan would have reminded him every time they saw him that it was indeed Friday. But the most unhelpful would be Aramis. He would stop by every so often, a note of celebration ringing in his voice, encouraging Athos to join them after work in this or that club. Then there would be the emails, arriving in bunches, detailing the plans, where they were going, what they would be doing (which inevitably boiled down to Athos nursing a bottle of wine while the others bounced around being social). About every forty-five minutes, another email bunch would arrive, inevitably changing whatever plans Aramis had laid out previously, so that Athos was never really concerned until about 4 pm. But today, no impromptu visits, no constant dinging email alerts, no Aramis. 

Something was wrong.

Athos reflected that he hadn’t even seen Porthos and Aramis at lunch. That wasn’t necessarily unusual. They had all had enough freedom to choose when to eat, and sometimes arranging their individual schedules just didn’t work out. Athos had eaten with d’Artagnan today, and they had never seen the others. 

He had to investigate. Athos decided he would head for the breakroom to get a cup of coffee. If he took the long way around, past Aramis’ office, so be it. Standing up from his office chair and stretching his aching back, Athos wondered what could have happened. With a click, he pulled up the company calendar. There were no meetings or events scheduled where Aramis might feel sufficiently subdued into not sending email missives (and frankly, that took a lot). So, concern niggling at the back of his mind, Athos headed down the hall.

Few people along the way bothered to acknowledge Athos and he was fine with that. Unlike Aramis, he could manage to move through the office without stopping to dazzle every other person. Though he had to admit, he didn’t really mind being on the dazzled end all that much. When he came to the shared office of Porthos and Aramis, the door was uncustomarily closed. Tapping lightly, he poked his head through enough to see Porthos look up with a finger to his lips, and Aramis face down on his desk. 

Athos slipped through the door and softly clicked it closed behind him. He could see a pile of cough drop wrappers and used tissues in the wastebasket next to Aramis’ desk. In a stage whisper, he asked Porthos what happened. 

“He started feeling poorly about mid-morning. He kept coughing, and his head was swimming. By lunch, he had trouble focusing. I went out to the pharmacy and brought back some supplies. He refused to go home, but he finally gave up trying to function about an hour ago. Poor guy.” Porthos finished by shaking his head in sympathy. 

“Does he have a fever?”

“Probably so, but he’s been grumpy enough that he hasn’t let me get near to check.”

Athos glanced up the laptop clock in front of Aramis’s prone head. “Let’s just get him home. I’ll go pack up my office and call for a cab. I’ll let d’Artagnan know we’re leaving, and come back for you both.” Relieved, Porthos nodded his assent and started shutting down his computer. Athos gave him a soft smile and sighed out, “looks like we have nursing duty this weekend.”

On the way back, Athos stopped in d’Artagnan’s cubicle, leaning back against one end of the desk, lowering his voice to prevent being overheard by nearby coworkers. “Aramis is sick, so Porthos and I are taking him home. If you would prefer to go out without us, that is perfectly all right. We’ll see you later. Don’t let us spoil your fun.” Despite the fact that d’Artagnan had slotted so seamlessly into their lives, Athos still felt a little self-conscious about the age difference. He never wanted to deprive d’Artagnan of experiences because they, he really, had been there and done that. 

d’Artagnan just scoffed a dismissal at Athos. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I’ll come home with you. Aramis needs us. I’ll pack up and meet you in their office.” Gratified, Athos sent him a smile that d’Artagnan probably didn’t even know was only ever for him. He patted d’Artagnan’s shoulder as regained his stance and said “I’ll see you soon.”

Ten minutes later, his laptop case over his shoulder, Athos made his way back to Aramis and Porthos. It was late enough now that, although they were still leaving a tad early, no one would question them. They might just be able to beat some of the traffic out of the city center. 

Porthos was ready to go, but Aramis hadn’t moved at all. “I didn’t know how long you’d be. Didn’t seem right to disturb him.” 

Athos approached the sleeping Aramis carefully, gently letting one hand weave through the curls on the back of his head before massaging his fingers into the scalp. He spoke with a soothing tone, “Aramis, Aramis, it’s time to wake up. Time to come back to us.” A vague groan issued forth into the desk. “C’mon, let’s get you home. A cup of tea and nice warm bed will do you wonders.”

“Athos?” Aramis did indeed look as dazed as he sounded when he finally raised his head. “Athos, I don’t feel good.”

“I know. Let’s get you home.” Athos ducked his head down to wrap Aramis’ arm across his shoulder to help him up. Porthos was already waiting with Aramis’ coat. The two of them managed to manhandle Aramis into it when d’Artagnan arrived. 

With a sad puppy look of sympathy, d’Artagnan encouraged them, “Go on and head out. I got this,” as he started to pack up Aramis’ desk and shut down the computer. 

Porthos chuckled, “yeah, be sure you wash your hands. He’s probably drooled the plague all over that.” Aramis looked vaguely affronted but was really too weak to pull it off. Instead, he just grumbled even as he leaned heavily into Porthos. “C’mon, Sicky.” Porthos guided Aramis with a hand across shoulders. Athos followed, holding the door for them. 

By the time they were waiting for the elevator, Aramis had rallied enough to realize that it was actually Friday night. “Athos!” Aramis’s head swiveled unsteadily to find him. “Athos, I don’t think I can go out. I’m so sorry. You deserve to go out.” His words drawled out as if he had already spent the night in front of a bar. 

With a wry smirk, Athos replied, “It’s ok, Aramis. I wouldn’t dare put you at risk.” d’Artagnan caught up to them just as the elevator doors opened, and Athos put a supportive palm on Aramis’ back. Thankfully, the four of them were the only occupants. A few minutes later, and they wouldn’t have had room to breathe as the entire building would be filtering out. Aramis didn’t take well to the downward motion, groaning and hiding his face in the crook of Porthos’ neck. 

The taxi Athos had ordered was waiting at the lobby doors and Athos bundled the rest into the back seat, their patient in the middle. Athos took the front passenger seat and gave the driver the address. He was immensely grateful that tonight, they would not be managing public transportation. In the back, Aramis’ eyes had already fallen closed, his head lolling on Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos still had an arm tucking him close, and seemed to be whispering soothing nonsense into Aramis’ hair. d’Artagnan was leaning slightly forward so that he could rub small circles on Aramis’ back. The ride home was punctuated by Aramis’ coughing spells, inevitably followed by low moans and Porthos’ comforting tones. 

Athos pulled out his credit card as the taxi slowed to a stop in front of their house. While the driver processed the transaction, d’Artagnan got out and reached back to help Aramis. Pulling him by an arm, d’Artagnan caught him before he completely stumbled out of the car and managed to hold Aramis upright until Porthos could retrieve him. Slowly, they made their way up the walk to the front door. Athos sprinted ahead with the key poised, and held the door open for his three house mates, which really meant that they turned sideways to drag Aramis in between them. Once in the entry hall, Porthos took one look at the staircase and didn’t want to fight it. Muttering “Oh hell,” he turned to Aramis and swept a hand under his knees, carrying him bridal-style up to the top floor. Aramis couldn’t quite process his change in position and his moan sounded more like a question. 

“It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

Athos and d’Artagnan exchanged amused looks and followed upstairs. 

Athos came down wearing sweats and a t-shirt (one which had belonged to Aramis at some point but had gotten confused in the laundry), delightfully prepared for a relaxed evening in. d’Artagnan was already ensconced in the kitchen and a savory aroma floated forth. Knowing he was useless at cooking, Athos had no intention of helping, but he could at least keep d’Artagnan company. Plopping down at the breakfast bar, Athos watched d’Artagnan smoothly chopping vegetables with a captivating grace. He was so grateful that d’Artagnan had come to share this home. 

A mere decade ago, Athos had been young himself, in love with his new wife, and his career had been on fire. After his brother’s death, everything went to hell. His wife’s betrayal and the bitter divorce led to Athos spending more nights than he cared to admit passed out on the tile floor of his ancestral house. Skipping work while passed out led his career into a downward spiral. He still had no idea why Porthos and Aramis took pity on him. When he didn’t appear in the office, they would drive out of the city to find him and put him back together. Aramis had grown extremely adept at picking the lock on his front door, so they wouldn’t have to bang on the windows until Athos staggered up to let them in. Porthos would manhandle him into a shower, bringing a modicum of sobriety, while Aramis fixed dinner and they both forced him to eat. They would stay the night, ensuring that Athos was in good enough condition to make it back to work in the morning, even if it meant they all left before dawn so Aramis and Porthos could change clothes at their own homes. Eventually, they took to keeping emergency bags of clothes with them so that they could leave Athos’ house in the morning and go directly to work without it looking like a walk of shame. 

As Athos’ condition slowly improved, he learned to say when he thought he shouldn’t be alone. Those nights were spent in the city, usually at Aramis’ apartment (the larger of the two). Mornings were still early, though, as they each cycled through the one shower, Porthos always complaining that the hot water gave out halfway through his time. Eventually, Athos noticed that he wasn’t really living at the old family house anymore. Life, living, was in the company of Aramis and Porthos. 

When he suggested they get a house together, both seemed surprised but readily agreed. Athos gave thanks for his family’s money that allowed them to look within the city, so they wouldn’t be subjected to that pre-dawn drive. They were lucky; it only took a few weeks to find what they needed: a cozy brick house with four upstairs bedrooms and three bathrooms. The water heater was strong enough that all three could shower in comfort at once. The bonus was the fourth bedroom, though at first, they didn’t know what to do with it. The room sat empty, untouched, for the first month. They hadn’t even put any empty boxes there. It was if they knew there was a purpose for that space and no one wanted to intrude upon it. 

d’Artagnan had been in their lives for a few months by that point. He had been assigned Athos as his mentor when he was hired by the company, and the trio had taken to inviting him with them for lunch and out on Friday nights. He brought a liveliness to the group which they hadn’t realized was missing. He happily soaked up all they wished to teach him, and all that eagerness made Athos want to take special care with his training. Such a thing would never have happened before Aramis and Porthos intervened in his life. When d’Artagnan complained about his roommates and his tiny portion of their apartment, Aramis only glanced at the other two before saying, “Well, I know a place.” d’Artagnan moved in the following weekend, and their home felt complete. 

d’Artagnan interrupted Athos’ reverie while he bustled round the kitchen. “I know it’s cliché,” d’Artagnan shrugged, “but chicken soup is one of Aramis’ favorites. I’m baking potatoes too. Can you see what toppings we have?” Athos dug into the fridge and came out with sour cream, butter, shredded cheese, and bacon bits. d’Artagnan muttered some at the bacon bits, preferring the real thing, but this at least would be a way to get rid of them. Athos went to work setting the table, and even managed to pull the precut lettuce out of the bag and into a large bowl for a salad. He was just leaning down to retrieve a breakfast tray out of the drawer when Porthos appeared. 

“How is he?”

“Not wanting to admit he’s sick, but not wanting to do anything else either. I managed to get him into bed, and I think he’ll sleep a little. I said I would bring his supper and eat with him. Doesn’t want to be alone.” Porthos shook his head with a fond smile on the last bit. 

“Soup’s almost ready” d’Artagnan assured. “If you can pull the potatoes out of the oven, Athos can put together a tray for you.” The three of them worked together easily to get supper on the table and on the tray. At the last second, Athos dropped a pudding cup on the tray, thinking the smooth creaminess would feel good on Aramis’ throat. Porthos headed back upstairs, carefully balancing the tray of two soups, while Athos and d’Artagnan sat down to the table. Much as they might like to have gone upstairs, Aramis’ room simply didn’t have the space for them all to eat there. 

Athos was clearing the table and d’Artagnan loading the dishwasher when Porthos returned, reporting that Aramis had eaten all his soup, but that he didn’t feel up to the baked potato. Porthos, of course, had finished that for him. Aramis had not turned down the pudding, though. 

“He could barely keep his eyes open when I left. I think he’ll finally rest now. Should probably check on him in an hour or so. Thanks for the meal.” Porthos patted d’Artagnan’s shoulder, knowing full well he had been the cook and not Athos. “S’nice to have a Friday night in.” 

They made their way into the living room where the two matching couches stood in an L-shape, an end table at the corner. Athos settled into one couch, and after loading a movie into the DVD player, Porthos dropped down next to d’Artagnan on the other. After about an hour, at a good spot to pause the movie, d’Artagnan went up to check on Aramis, while Porthos made them tea. Athos stayed put, content listening to the sounds of the others as they went about their tasks. 

Upon their return, d’Artagnan reported that Aramis was indeed sleeping. “I even managed to get a cool washcloth on his forehead. He didn’t wake up, but he seemed to notice it there.” 

Porthos nodded, “Hopefully, that fever breaks tomorrow. I think if he gets some rest, he’ll come out of it sooner.” 

“Nevertheless, we should make sure to check on him through the night,” Athos added. The others assured their agreement. 

Later, Athos was just returning from the kitchen with a newly refreshed cup of tea when Aramis made his careful way down the stairs. He gripped the banister like a lifeline, eyes still glassy with fever. “Aramis,” Athos tried keeping the rebuke out of his voice, “you shouldn’t be out of bed yet.” As Aramis stood unsteadily at the bottom of the steps, Athos reached an arm over his shoulders. Aramis leaned into the support, head on Athos’ shoulder, but his arms seemed too worn out to complete the hug. A sick Aramis was always a tactile Aramis, and Athos, rarely one to initiate touch, overcame his shyness to offer comfort. A sick Aramis also spoke with short clipped sentences like a toddler. 

“Too lonely. Wanna be with you.” 

Despite the fact that Aramis really did belong in bed, Athos was powerless to resist. “All right, c’mon, you can watch the movie with us.” He dropped an indulgent kiss on top of Aramis’ rumpled curls before turning them away from the stairs. 

As they made cautious progress into the living room, Porthos and d’Artagnan, voices soft, as if trying not to spook a nervous horse, greeted Aramis. Their patient offered up a small smile, as if he knew he was pathetic but was beyond caring. Athos put his tea down on the end table and grabbed the throw pillow out of the corner of the couch. He sat at angle into the couch corner, so that one leg was stretched out in front of him and one still on the floor. Placing the cushion in his lap, he tugged Aramis down. Aramis put his head on the cushion, moving one hand under it to lie on Athos’ thigh. His back rested against Athos’ outstretched leg. Aramis made soft mewling sounds of contentment as he settled in, making as much physical contact as he could. Athos let a hand stroke through the wild curls, which resulted in a happy sigh from Aramis. His eyes were already closed, and he had given up all pretense of watching the movie.

A soft huff of approval came from other couch. Athos looked up to see Porthos giving him a nod. d’Artagnan had snuggled under Porthos’ arm, resting his head on the big man’s shoulder, also smiling. Porthos stretched out his other arm across the end table, silently asking for Athos’ free hand. When they connected, Porthos said softly, “I’m glad we didn’t go out. It’s good to be home.”

Indeed it was.


End file.
